Maitland's Cafe
by StormWolf10
Summary: AU. Oneshot (for now, at least). In which the Maitlands own a small Chiswick cafe, and John Smith (11) demands to speak to their 'Impossible Souffle Girl'...


**A/N: I… I don't know where I'm going with this… Oneshot, unless people want more. AU, obviously, and it was written purely because I noticed that the few Whouffle AU's out there didn't go for the most obvious one I could think of… ;) I OWN NOTHING. **

"I need to speak to your soufflé girl!"

"I… I'm sorry?" the teenager at the counter asked, confused by the man's demand.

"I need to speak to your soufflé girl!"

"I'm afraid customers aren't allowed in the kitchens." The teenager told the customer, wide-eyed.

"But I have to speak to her! I… To make a soufflé that good is, well… Impossible!"

The teenager gave the man a wary look, before backing away from the counter and calling for his manager.

"Mr Maitland?" the teen called out, wide-eyed as he didn't take his eyes off the customer.

The customer in question sighed, slumping against the counter. Soon enough, a man came out of the kitchen, wearing dark jeans and a black shirt with the café logo on it.

"Hello, I'm Richard Maitland, can I help you?" Mr Maitland introduced himself to his customer.

"John Smith." The customer replied "I need to speak to your soufflé girl."

Mr Maitland blinked in confusion, and John repeated himself yet again. As he spoke, his hands fidgeted at his sides, going in the pockets of his tweed jacket before coming back out, fiddling with his braces, tugging at his collar and back into his pockets.

"I'm afraid that can't be arranged, Mr Smith." Mr Maitland told the man calmly "If you have a complaint, I'm quite happy to discuss it with you-"

"No, no, no!" John sighed, arms flapping again as the gangly man paced in front of the counter "I don't _want_ to complain! I _want_ to speak to your impossible soufflé girl! The recipe… The soufflé… Notoriously difficult to make, and yet she gets it spot on! What's her secret, hmm? Shop bought? Out-of-a-packet mixture?"

"I assure you, Mr Smith, everything we serve here at Maitland's Café is handmade by my kitchen staff. We may not be the biggest café in Chiswick, but we pride ourselves in our handmade cakes and food." Mr Maitland told the man, straightening and surveying John.

John was only in his early thirties at most, Mr Maitland decided, and was dressed rather unusually with braces, a bow tie and a tweed jacket. His black trousers were rolled up slightly, revealing well-worn black boots. His brown hair flopped slightly over his green eyes, looking like it needed a cut.

"Are you from another café?" Mr Maitland asked suddenly, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

John shook his head.

"Nope. Just want to know how the hell to bake that soufflé without burning it to a crisp or flattening it." John replied.

"Well, as I'm sure you've already been told, I'm afraid we don't let customers in the kitchens." Mr Maitland told him calmly.

**~StormWolf10~**

"Dad?" Artie asked in a stage-whisper "Who's the funny-looking man?"

"Yeah," Angie chipped in "and why's he wearing such weird clothes?"

Mr Maitland sighed at that. His daughter Angie was never exactly… _subtle_, and there was always the risk that she'd upset some of their more eccentric customers when she and her younger brother Artie came into the café after school. The two children were sat behind the counter, watching the customers in the café. It was almost four o'clock, only an hour left until the café closed, and John Smith was sat at a table in the corner of the room, stubbornly refusing to leave until he spoke to 'the impossible soufflé girl'. He'd ordered several more soufflés, poking and prodding at them and even pulling out a pair of reading glasses as he attempted to decipher how the soufflé had been made.

"He's refusing to leave until he speaks to whoever makes our soufflés." Mr Maitland replied carefully, noting that the man appeared to be listening in on their conversation.

"But why does he want to speak to Clara?" Angie asked, screwing up her nose.

Mr Maitland sighed again, and one glance at John Smith told him that the man had heard.

"I'm not sure." Mr Maitland ground out through grit teeth "Said he wanted to know how to bake the soufflé without it burning."

"Why doesn't he just get cooking lessons?" Artie asked "Like you did after Mum died?"

John Smith's mouth quirked up at the mention of him getting cooking lessons, clearly finding the idea amusing.

"I don't know, Artie." Mr Maitland told his son, forcing a smile and moving to serve another customer.

**~StormWolf10~**

"Angie, if you could just clear those tables for me," Mr Maitland told his daughter, nodding over at a table near John Smith's.

John looked up at that, and looked around in confusion when he saw that he was the only person left in the café.

"Oh. Closing time already?" He asked as Mr Maitland approached him.

"I'm afraid so, sir." Mr Maitland told him calmly.

"But I haven't met your soufflé girl!" John pointed out, face falling.

"And I'm afraid you won't be. Now, if you don't mind, we need to clear everything up and lock up for the night." Mr Maitland announced.

With a sigh, John got to his feet, grumbling under his breath as he headed for the door. He stepped out onto the street, noting how the traffic was building up. Rush hour. Of course. He started making his way home when he heard someone call out.

"See you tomorrow, Mr Maitland!"

Frowning, John whipped round, wide-eyed as he saw a young woman- probably in her early to mid twenties- walking away in the opposite direction. He couldn't see her face, it was obscured by long dark brown hair, and her head was bowed as if she were on a mobile phone. She had a lightweight jacket on over the top of a dark skirt and black t-shirt that was her uniform, a bright red bag slung over her shoulder.

"Soufflé girl." John realised, his voice soft.

And then he realised; he could talk to her, find out how that impossible girl managed to make that impossible soufflé. His feet began moving on their own, and he was walking, jogging, running down the road after her.

"Soufflé girl!" he yelled, running down the road after her.

The girl- Clara- looked round in shock, frowning at the madman who appeared to be chasing her down the road. People in cars were watching them in confusion, and Clara was torn between wanting to know what this strange man wanted, and running from him as fast as possible. And then it was too late to run, because he was beside her, breathing heavily and offering her his hand to shake. Bemused, Clara shook his hand.

"Soufflé girl. I'm John Smith." He told her, breathing heavily still as he attempted to get his breath back.

"Hi, John Smith." Clara told him, eyes narrowing slightly as she looked him over "My name isn't soufflé girl."

"I know. You're Clara."

"And how do you know that?" Clara asked, taking a slight step back.

"I was in the café. Maitland's Café." John explained with a smile.

"You're the one demanding to know about the soufflé recipe." Clara realised with a wry smile.

John shrugged.

"I suppose I was." He nodded with a small smile.

"Well, I'm afraid you've wasted your time, John Smith. I won't tell you." Clara announced, smiling as she began to continue home.

It took John a couple of moments to process what Clara had said, and then he began hurrying after her.

"What? Why?!" he asked, falling into step beside her.

"Family recipe." Clara replied "My Mother taught it to me. Couldn't possibly share it with anyone."

"You're sharing it at Maitland's Café." John pointed out.

"Yeah, but I'm not writing the ingredients on the menu, am I?" Clara smirked.

"Well, I suppose not." John conceded with another shrug "But, what if I paid you?"

"I'm sorry?" Clara asked, halting in the middle of the pavement.

"Or, I don't know, bought you something, a present, as a… consolation for sharing your recipe with me?" John suggested.

"Why are you so desperate for this recipe?" Clara asked, folding her arms and cocking her head as she surveyed him.

"I'm… Somewhat of an amateur cook," John admitted, hands fidgeting restlessly as he spoke "I've liked cooking since I was younger- used to cook with my Nan-, but I can't seem to ever get soufflés right. I've tried following cookery books, going to classes, looking on the internet…. Nothing works!"

"I… Look, I won't give you the recipe, but… We don't open on Sundays, I'll be more than happy to give you a few lessons if you like." Clara told him.

John nodded eagerly, watching as Clara pulled a piece of paper from her bag, along with a pen. She wrote something down- a rather long list, by the looks of it- before handing it to him.

"This is the list of ingredients you'll need," she explained as John looked over the list "and the equipment. I'll meet you at ten outside the café. Is it alright if we do the classes at yours? I still live with my Dad, and it would be easier to go to yours."

John nodded again, smiling a little more nervously.

"Yeah, that should be fine." He assured her.

Clara smiled back.

"My mobile number's written on the bottom there," she added, pointing to the bottom of the paper "and I'll see you Sunday, then."

**~StormWolf10~**

The next morning when Clara turned up for work, Angie and Artie were having an argument, and Clara just smiled as she walked past the children to the kitchen. She set up the ingredients she would need before heading back into the café to help set the tables. It was then that she saw that Mr Maitland was stood frowning at something that had apparently just been handed to him if the delivery boy walking away from the café was anything to go by.

"What's that, Mr Maitland?" Clara asked, frowning as she made her way over to him.

"I _think_ they're for you, Clara." Mr Maitland told her, turning round to hand her the delivery of bright red daisies he had just been handed "I think they're from that guy who was in here yesterday."

Clara took the flowers from Mr Maitland, reaching to read the card attached to them.

_To: Impossible Soufflé Girl, thanks for offering to give me cooking lessons! From: John Smith._

Clara couldn't help but smile.


End file.
